The Burgess Curse
by hannah.jpg
Summary: Warren learns that the men in his family are weak for immortal nature beings, much to his chagrin.
1. Chapter 1

_A couple of author's notes: first part takes place several years before the revenant, the second takes place after Zzyzx. No, I don't ship WarrenxVanessa so this is my response to make myself feel better (Warren deserves better!). Anyways, this story features clumsy Warren (no kidding right), Stony Vale, grumpy Bracken and my favorite: the bed-sharing trope. Yipee! Don't take anything too seriously though. This is for fun._

* * *

 _Ten years earlier._

Warren held out a hand in front of Dougan, effectively stopping their progress through the rich, green valley which marked the safest path through Stony Vale. Since their business at the preserve had been concluded easily an hour or so earlier (the concern turning out to be a false alarm), they had allowed their guard to relax as they tramped through the picturesque countryside.

"What is it?" the larger man asked, his voice barely audible.

"I hear something," Warren said. "Something unnatural." They both held their breaths, and in a heart-wrenching instant Warren heard it again, and he jerked to the east of where they stood, which was eclipsed by a thick line of ancient elm trees.

"Uncanny. I can't hear it," Dougan muttered. "Let's keep going."

But Warren was already stepping off the path, ignoring Dougan's hiss of warning behind him. Through the elms, the sound became much clearer—it was a woman singing. Somewhere in the back of Warren's mind, he knew it would be some sort of illusion. But curiosity drew him onward; he wanted to see the illusion, whatever it was.

He was barely inducted in the Knights of the Dawn. This accounted for Dougan's presence on a mission that would normally only require a single person. Warren tried not to think that this would also account for his reckless trip into the thick forest.

When he stepped through the far side of the elms, the music abruptly stopped, and there was a splash of water. Warren looked around, but did not see even a ripple. Nor did he hear Dougan behind him. There was a river rushing before him; no more than three feet across and flowing lazily down from the hills. Warren crept closer, telling himself it was just to see how deep it was.

A face floated close to the surface, and Warren stumbled backward in surprise. But it did not attack, so he moved closer again, his footsteps sinking into the soft, moist soil by the riverbank.

"Was that you?" he asked the figure. It did not respond, but floated closer until it broke the sparkling, black water. A woman's face, staring up at him with wide, golden eyes, framed by wet, dark hair.

"Couldn't be," Warren answered his own question. "You're a naiad, aren't you? Naiads don't sing."

A slight raise to her brows was all the response he got.

"And you're alone," he guessed. "And naiads rarely leave the water."

Again the woman shrugged.

"But you understand me," Warren continued. "So...what are you?"

She tilted her head, but did not answer, her eyes not moving from his own. Suddenly he was acutely aware of how pretty this creature was, and his heart thudded uncomfortably as several thoughts passed through his mind at once. His great-great uncle, Patton Burgess, had fallen in love with a naiad. Was this one trying to drown him? She wasn't moving.

Warren continued to creep closer to the water. He was ready to bolt if she tried to grab him, and he wanted a closer look. Suddenly his booted foot slipped on a mossy rock, and he pitched forward.

Everything seemed to slow down. The woman was watching in surprise, and opened her arms as if to catch him. He knew that under no circumstances should he enter an unknown magical creature's domain (he wasn't _that_ inexperienced). He also knew that physics and gravity were pretty hard to beat, and his arms flailed helplessly.

Just as Warren's outstretched fingers touched the icy-cold surface of the black river, just as the woman's hands were about to encircle his neck to catch him—a violent tug pulled him backwards. He choked, the collar of his shirt pushing uncomfortably on his throat, and fell backwards on the cold riverbank, water sloshing into his shoes.

"Idiot," Dougan, muttered. "What were you thinking?"

"I slipped," Warren said dumbly, rubbing his neck. "Why so brutal? My throat is tender and should be treated more gently!"

"I barely caught you in time. She almost touched you. If you had, you would be at the bottom of the river now."

Warren sobered quickly. "What was she?" She, of course, was gone—there was no trace of her presence on the surface of the river, which bubbled on as if nothing had just happened.

"Some sort of naiad," Dougan, said, scratching his ruddy whiskers as he looked about. "Not sure. We can ask McKay. Come on." McKay was caretaker of Stony Vale. He would probably know, and with that to satisfy him, Warren accepted Dougan's outstretched hand to rise to his feet.

The song was still echoing in his mind, and Warren hoped fervently to forget it soon.

* * *

 _The beginning of my first foray into the Fablehaven fandom. And pretty much the last: this story only has one or two more chapters. Hope you enjoy._


	2. Chapter 2

_Present Time._

Warren whistled as he tromped through the valley, eyes darting around nervously. The hair on the back of his neck was standing stiff, though McKay had assured no danger would befall him on the path. But Warren wasn't worried about the path: he was worried what might lead him off of the path.

Despite the years that had passed since the incident by the river, despite the experiences he had had which made him more capable to deal with danger—Warren was nervous. He shouldn't have suggesting flying this mission solo. Not that the mission itself was a real challenge (negotiating with dryads rarely was), but he grew jumpy as the sound of the river reached his ears. Warren did not trust himself, not where that creature was concerned.

He shuddered, whistling louder as he tried to ignore the tugging curiosity with which he was so familiar. McKay had not known what the woman was. He had never seen anything in the river before, though rumors of kelpies had persisted for generations. But Warren was certain that woman was not a kelpie. Kelpies weren't clairvoyant. It wouldn't explain the dreams.

But there could be little harm in exploration, right? As long as he kept his footing as his wits. Warren was growing adept at keeping his wits; too many recent experiences had forced that upon him. There was no one to advise against going to the river. Except himself. And Warren had never been good at keeping himself in check.

He steered off the path, and into the elms. Without thinking, he stopped whistling, and almost immediately another sound took its place. Singing. Of course. Full-throated, female singing. The language was familiar but Warren could not translate it. He slowed his walking and his breathing, intent on being as quiet as possible. Whether it was the watery woman that sang or something else, he wanted to know.

At last he could see the black river through the trees. The noonday sun made it glisten, but it was no clearer than before. Rocks were scattered along the bank, and to his surprise he saw the figure of a woman, half out of the water and half on a rock, laying her head on her crossed arms as she sang.

A twig snapped underneath. Warren sucked in a breath as the song stopped, and the woman's golden eyes flitted across the trees. She saw him, blinked, and then disappeared under the water.

 _So much for observation_ , he thought to himself with annoyance. _Klutz._

Secrecy thrown to the wind, Warren made his way to the river, sitting on a rock with a sigh as he watched the water drift lazily past. It was a lovely scene, but he wasn't really one for sitting. The urgency of his mission seemed to float to the back of his mind, and he sighed again. Though it seemed unlikely the woman would return, Warren could not bring himself to leave. The questions burning in his mind had been burning too long.

"Hello?" he called. "I'm not here to harm you. I just want to ask you something."

An odd, tense sort of silence followed. He waited. Then sighed. And then nearly fell backwards as the woman's head broke the surface of the river right in front of him, staring at him with those golden eyes.

"A little warning next time," Warren suggested, his heart racing. "If I have a heart attack, I'm going to die here on the shore and deny you the pleasure of drowning me, thanks very much."

The creature's face pinched, as if confused.

"Can you speak?" he asked.

She nodded.

Warren waited. "Will you?" he added.

The woman shrugged. In the ensuing silence, he took the time to study her. She did not look like a naiad—at least the naiads at Fablehaven. There was no webbing between the fingers she used to wipe the wet hair from her face. She was not deliberately trying to pull him into the river, and she showed willingness to break the surface.

"I want to know what you are," Warren said at last. "If you won't speak, will you nod or shake your head to my questions?"

Her pale lips tilted upwards, and she nodded.

 _Great_ , he thought. _Stuck playing twenty questions with a mute naiad. This will be fun._ He cleared his throat. "Are you a naiad?" he asked.

She shook her head.

"Are you...a dryad?"

A scowl and a shake of the head.

"Of course not," Warren agreed. "You're in a river. Hmm. Are you alone?"

A nod.

"Do you know the caretaker here?"

A nod.

"Does...he know you?"

She shook her head.

Warren crossed his arms. "Can you read my mind?"

A look of pure confusion. And a shake of the head.

"Do you—"

Before he finished the question, her eyes darted away and widened. Warren knew that look, and he lept to his feet, drawing out the lone knife he had brought on the expedition, cursing the laxity that had prevented him from bringing a sword. If there was danger…

He had no time to assess the situation. A squealing, laughing dryad was running past, easily outracing a satyr with curly red hair a wearing a kilt. They came too close, and Warren started to shout, "Hey, watch—"

The clumsy satyr fumbled his footing, staring at Warren in surprise, and then lost his balance completely. He pitched forward, and his heavy body pushed Warren backward.

 _Ugh, not again._

The rocks were still slippery. Warren was still clumsy. There was no way he could escape it.

The water was colder than he expected, and his muscles clenched as it enveloped him completely. Opening his eyes, he saw that the satyr had bounced off of him, and was soon out of sight. _Traitor_ , Warren thought uncharitably. He couldn't move. It was too cold, though he kept telling himself sternly to start swimming. He was sinking from the surface, though it should be floating. And he could hear the music all around him, as if the river was singing in the words. It was all very odd…

Then he was flipped over, and at the bottom he saw the creature's golden eyes glowing up at him. _Great. Now she really is going to eat me. At least no one will know it was twenty questions that killed me._

The woman tilted her head at him. She seemed distorted by the water; her body looking too large, her face too long. Warren kept trying to move his arms, but to no avail. He tried to mouth the word, _help_ , but his lips wouldn't move either.

Before he could react (not that he _could_ actually react), the woman rushed towards him, her pale arms outstretched, and he felt bubbles around him as he was pushed backwards. With a mighty heave, Warren was thrown onto the riverbank none too gently, gasping for air. He lay on his back and coughed out icy water, spewing it onto the soil and rocks. His fists were like ice as he rubbed his eyes, trying to focus on what was around him.

A screech pierced his ears. Then another. Warren turned and half-jumped as he saw the woman sitting behind him on the back, scrambling backwards in panic as the black water lapped against her bare toes. She was wearing only a gauzy black dress, damp to the skin. She turned, looked at him, and screeched again. Warren barely held back a shout of his own.

He was still partially in the water; her push had only just gotten him out of the river, and his feet were growing numb. Still the water was pushing the woman back, and on uncertain legs, she stood, and then fell against Warren as he pulled himself into a sitting position. She was crawling up his back! Warren yelped as her clammy hands clasped onto his forehead, her trembling legs wrapping around his shoulders. She was heavier than she looked, and he pitched before righting himself.

"Hey! What are you doing?"

She only whimpered.

"Are you supposed to be out of the river? What is going on?"

A pause, and then a choked back sob. "It was not supposed to be that way!" At last, she spoke! Her voice was low and wavering, though it held the same musicality Warren remembered Lena having. Though this creature's voice was much thicker accented, of course—they were in Scotland, after all.

"What way?" Warren asked. "Seriously, what is happening?"

She was sniffling above him, and with a grunt from him and a squeal from her, he righted himself, standing awkwardly on the bank, soaking wet and with an equally-wet woman sitting on his shoulders in obvious fright. He tried to adjust her so she sat more comfortably on his shoulders, as she seemed to consider him her transportation. His questions unanswered, Warren groaned inwardly.

"We'll go back to the house," he said. "Maev can help you."

"Maev?" The woman's voice was timid.

"Caretaker's daughter."

"Oh."

Warren could barely hear her, and with a sigh, he began to tramp awkwardly towards the elm trees, unused to the weight. "Well," he grunted as they passed through. "We have time before we get to the house. It's a half-hour walk. You have time to tell me your name."

Silence, except for his heavy steps through the soft, green grass. Then, "Gràinne." She pronounced it GRAW-nya.

"Nice to meet you, Gràinne," Warren panted. "I'm Warren. Pardon me if I don't shake your hand."

A hesitant, quiet giggle; he could have imagined it.

"Will you tell me what kind of creature you are, Gràinne?" he tried to ask again. She had told him her name, which was progress.

"I am a hydriad," she whispered.

"Really! I thought those were only legend."

Her grip on his forehead tightened, and he winced. The sun was hidden behind a huge hill, and in the shade he shivered despite the vigorous walking.

"We are, mostly," Gràinne said, her voice mournful. "I am the last at this preserve."

"Then why doesn't McKay know of you? He can't very well protect you if he doesn't know of your existence!"

"It is better that he does not know." Now that she was speaking, she clearly had no problem explaining herself. "We have been hunted for centuries. Without my presence known...I am safer."

"You're not very safe now," Warren pointed out. "Aren't hydriads supposed to live in their rivers? Like dryads or naiads?"

In a small voice, she said, "We can leave, under the same circumstances as our cousins. Many have left willingly. We are...weaker than the naiads. Less...aggressive."

"You didn't drown me," Warren said after a moment. "Why?"

Gràinne did not answer. Nor did she speak again for the remainder of the hike, despite Warren's continued efforts. He considered asking her if she could walk, as his shoulders began to scream in protest against the burden, but decided against it. She had just left her river; likely it was a very trying day for her.

McKay employed a whisper hound at the border of the grounds to the caretaker's house—house, meaning castle—and Warren felt the familiar breeze as it sniffed him. He froze, suddenly aware that he was bringing a stranger. But evidently the hound did not deem Gràinne a threat, and soon disappeared. Warren let out a breath.

"Well—whatever your plans are," he said. "McKay will help. And Maev. They're very nice, I think you'll like them. Unless you take a disliking the loud, generous type. Then you're toast."

Again her clasp on him tightened. _If nothing else, she will soon have someone else to squeeze to death_ , Warren thought.

Light shone through the slitted windows of the castle, except in the rarely-used turrets. If Gràinne was surprised by the monstrous castle, she did not show it, and Warren trudged across the drawbridge and into the courtyard. Stars began to twinkle above as the sky darkened; he had been gone for hours.

McKay was staring down a satyr—the satyr that had nearly drowned Warren—and giving him harsh words in Gaelic. The satyr bleated back.

"No need to worry!" Warren said breezily, confidently walking towards them. "I'm alive and well, as always."

The satyr turned and cried aloud with relief, though McKay's jaw was twitching. "Go, Ranulf," he growled. "And watch where you chase dryads from now on!"

Ranulf took the opportunity and ran, his hooves clopping on the stone floor and across the wooden drawbridge, McKay was standing, hands on hips, looking none too pleased at the sight of Warren in front of him.

"What?" Warren asked, all innocence. "Do I have something in my teeth?"

McKay ignored him, and offered a hand to Gràinne, who took it and alighted from Warren's back. Ah, sweet relief! He rubbed the aching muscles, hoping that Maev would have a nice medicine for him. "Go through that door there, child," he told Gràinne gently. "My daughter will clean you up right fast."

Gràinne shot Warren a confused glance, and he shrugged. "Don't wait on me," he said. "I'd rather stay here in the cold breeze." As soon as she was out of earshot, walking on shaking legs to the door and looking at Warren once more before passing through it, McKay grasped Warren's arm painfully tight.

"Did you lure her from the water?" he asked, voice uncharacteristically hard.

"Of course not!" Warren said hotly. "And she said you didn't know her—what's the deal?"

"Och, I know her, though I've never seen her before," McKay let out a long breath. "Her kind are the reason the preserve was built here."

"The hydriads?"

"Yes. They've been hunted nearly to extinction. She's the last in Europe. If there are others elsewhere, I do not know where. Warren, mate, you're a Knight of the Dawn! Don't you know why she's in danger?"

Warren thought for a moment, then admitted grudgingly, "No."

"Good." McKay looked relieved at this. "It's supposed to be that way. Come to the kitchens; you look like you can use a cup of tea."

The kitchen was huge, built to feed hundreds of guests. But as there were not hundreds currently living in Stony Castle, the modern conveniences were placed in a small corner, and Warren sat at a small, oak table near the stove while McKay put the kettle on.

"So," he said casually. "Why is Gràinne in danger?"

McKay sat across from him, folding his meaty hands in front of him. "Hydriads are unique," he began. "They serve a purpose other than sport. Naiads, for instance, exist for little more than the fun of play, usually in the form of drowning others. Dryads are flirtatious. They all can protect their domains to some extent, but they know little else. Their worlds are in their inhibitions."

"Okay," Warren said. He knew all this already, but in McKay's strange, solemn mood decided against saying so.

"Hydriads are nymphs of water—any water. That in itself isn't unique. But legend tells that long ago, several saved the Fairy King's sword from a kelpie, and she and her sisters were bestowed with powers beyond her sphere in gratitude by the Fairy Queen."

"I see."

McKay's eyes were keen. "Do you? That gift made the hydriads a target. Men—both mortal and immortal, magical and non-magical—have sought the guidance of hydriads for centuries. Many succeeded. Hydriads are shy, and do not fight. And many will leave their homes willingly, if properly motivated."

"So what can they do?" Warren asked, growing frustrated. "What's this great power?"

"They can predict true love."

The kettle whistled. McKay rose to make the tea, and Warren stared at where the man had sat, flummoxed. "True love?" he asked slowly. "That's ridiculous. There's no such thing. And what sort of gift is that, anyway? Useless!"

"Not useless," McKay said.

"Sure it is!" Warren argued. "What if a person came, looking for their true love, but their true love lived on the other side of the planet? Especially a thousand years ago!"

A steaming cup of tea was set before him, and McKay sat again. "I do not know all the specifics," he said. "But I know that many were captured and enslaved by kings and emperors. Love can be a powerful motivation."

Warren still maintained it a ridiculous use of magic, (no disrespect to the Fairy Queen, of course, but true love? Really?). So he sipped the tea, recognizing a tinge of restorative potion. He did not comment on it. "I didn't lure her from the water," Warren said at last. "I fell in, _accidentally_ ," he enunciated. "She pushed me out. She saved me from drowning. I couldn't move under the water."

"That's very generous of her," McKay said. "Considering that now she is fallen."

It took a moment for his words to reach Warren, who spluttered tea onto the table as the full weight of the implication sunk in. " _Fallen_?" he gasped. "She—she can't return to the river?"

McKay shook his head slowly.

"Oh, for the love of—" Warren groaned. "I really hope she's not the last of her kind, otherwise my head will be on a platter before the end of the week."

McKay grunted in agreement. "Just food for thought. Maybe she'll have a good explanation. Maybe not. But I wouldn't hold out hope. Ever been before a tribunal?"

Warren clenched his jaw. "Nope. Never had a plan to."

"Better start planning."

The caretaker departed soon after, and Warren was left with the lukewarm tea and discouraging thoughts. Then, after a while, he too made his way slowly to his room in the castle, not even noticing that his clothes had dried at last.


	3. Chapter 3

Despite the excitement of the day and his exhaustion from almost drowning and then carrying a woman on his shoulder for a several-mile hike, sleep escaped Warren. After cleaning himself up from the adventure, he went to bed but found himself tossing and turning for what felt like hours. The thought of potentially bringing about the extinction of a magical creature did not sit well with him. But it was the fact that he had not eaten anything for dinner that at last drove him from his bed and to seek repast, back in the kitchens below.

The castle was pitch-black, but Warren knew his way around well enough. It helped that he always requested a room close to the kitchen. But when he turned into the final corridor, he saw that the side door to the kitchens was ajar, and from inside he could hear sobbing.

There was no light on, which was odd. So he entered the kitchen and flipped a switch, startling the occupant. Gràinne was sitting in the chair he had vacated hours ago, and as she saw him standing in the doorway she screeched and knocked her tea into her lap. Warren did not hesitate, rummaging through cupboards until he found a clean towel. She dabbed it awkwardly against the thick dressing gown she was wearing, her cheeks bright red against the eerie paleness of her skin. He watched for a moment, feeling guilty for more reason than the spill, and sat across from her.

"How are you?" Warren asked, perhaps overly-kindly. He saw the tear tracks on her cheeks, and knew she had been the one he heard crying.

Gràinne was slow to speak, her eyes lowered. "Maev is very hospitable," she said. "And McKay is thoughtful."

"Both of those things are true," he agreed. "And what else? If the castle is too damp or the tea too weak, you can confide in me! I won't tell."

She glanced up at him, her golden eyes glowing. He noticed the sleek black of her hair, brushed smoothly down her back. Maev had cleaned her up very well indeed, and Warren felt an odd sensation in his chest as he continued to stare, and her lips turned upwards. "The sensation of being out of the river is...strange," she told him. "I feel tired, as I think is normal for a human, and I want food." She was quiet for a moment. "I have never been hungry before. It was always just a rumor of mortality."

"Hungry! Now that is something I can fix. I was going to search out a snack myself. What would you like? Toast? Eggs?"

"I...I don't know."

"Fair enough." Warren began to pull out the necessary. "I must warn you—I am one of the greatest cooks you will ever meet. All other food you try after tonight will be a disappointment." It was a slight exaggeration, but Warren figured that her first eating experience would make his offerings taste better than normal. Gràinne was hiding her lips behind her hand, but he knew she was smiling, and so he grinned in return.

"So," he continued, cracking eggs into a skillet. "McKay says you can predict true love."

"Yes."

"And?"

Gràinne stared. "And—what?"

"Who is my true love?" He meant it jokingly, and so was unprepared for the expression of illness on her face. The blue veins underneath her skin stood out strangely as she paled.

"I can't tell you," she whispered. "I vowed never to use my gift."

Warren stirred the eggs. _Convenient._ "Ok," he said, deciding not to press it. "And I have to ask—are you clairvoyant as well?"

"Clairvoy—no! Not at all!" Gràinne's brows furrowed as she shook her head.

"Then tell me," he said casually, leaning against the cooktop. "Why do I dream about you?"

She tilted her head at him, a perfect picture of bafflement. "You—you dream of me?"

"Yup," Warren said. "I have for years, since the first time I saw you."

Gràinne was biting her lip, clearly struggling with how to respond. Warren busied himself while she thought, buttering bread and and filling two cups full of cold milk. When at last he sat the meal in front of her, she seemed ready to speak, but then the smell of the food reached her. She sniffed deeply, nearly going cross-eyed.

"It's good," he encouraged her. "The best you'll ever have." He did not hesitate to dive into his own eggs. Gràinne was more hesitant, but after a few bites she began to dig in with relish, her eyes wide. Several moments followed with no conversation. Warren began to feel uncomfortable. Though she had answered all the questions that had nagged him for years, he was no closer to an answer. Who could help him then, if not Gràinne? Trask? Bracken?

At last Gràinne set down her fork with trembling fingers, her golden gaze on Warren. He nearly choked on his toast, and then cleared his throat. "I could have let you die," she said frankly. "I have allowed many men to drown, all of whom came to capture me. But...but I—" She swallowed. "I couldn't. I saw your future."

"Really!" Warren said with interest. "Go on! What can I expect? Trophies? Titles? Great acclaim?"

"Not that future." Her lips were compressed, and her shoulders were tense. "I can only see true love."

Warren sighed, disappointed. "Right. Because there's only one right person for another. Leaving little hope for the rest of us, whose true love is probably dead or incarcerated."

"Only one?" Gràinne frowned. "But that is not true."

"How comforting."

She was fidgeting. "How can I explain this? There is no 'one' person for another. But there are some who get along better with others, and certain temperaments suit...the ability of my kind is to tell you whom will bring you the greatest happiness and love. There may be many, but we can direct people to one. Only one."

"That would be where the rumor started, then," Warren said.

"I suppose so."

"Fine. So tell me my one true love, or one of ten true loves, or whatever."

Gràinne bit her lip. "I saved you," she said. "I might have lived forever, but I left the river. For you. It's not fair!" Her voice broke on the final word. "The last of my sisters...perhaps the last in the world. Not the first to love a mortal, but I know now I will be the last."

Warren, in the process of sipping his milk, choked again. "You don't mean me!" he said loudly.

She blinked slowly, and then, "Yes."

"But—but—"

Gràinne raised her eyebrows, and he thought he sensed lurking shame in the golden glow of her eyes.

"You're saying you're my true love?" Warren asked. "You—an immortal—and...and...me? I don't believe it!"

She covered her face with her hands, and with embarrassment he saw tears leaking again. "It wasn't supposed to happen this way," she moaned. "I knew you would react badly! I—I only wanted…" Gràinne lifted her eyes to his again, pleading. "You came back. It gave me hope. I thought that maybe...many men have fallen in love with nymphs. I hoped you could, too. Otherwise I could disappear, and you find another…"

Warren didn't know what to say. He felt blindsided by all this information; a little angry, and a little awkward. Could she really be his true love? He couldn't deny his attraction for her. But that was hardly love.

"You dreamt of me," Gràinne said. "That is far beyond my powers. That was _you_ , Warren." This marked the first time she had said his name, and the sound send a tingling warmth through him.

"Fine, then," he grumbled. "I'll admit it. You fascinate me. But I know better than to get involved with a nymph. It's happened in my family before."

"Oh?"

"An ancestor of mine married a dryad. Broke her heart. She became a demon, yadda yadda. You know how it goes," he affected an air of leisure, as if it wasn't important.

"Do you mean Ephira?"

"Do I mean—wait, you know Ephira?"

Gràinne shrugged. "Word travels through water fast. Even though I have always been isolated, I hear enough."

"I'll say," Warren grumbled.

Her eyes brightened, as if she hadn't heard him. "If your ancestor was Marshal Burgess—then you are related to Patton as well!"

"Yup," Warren said. "Great-great uncle of mine. Swell guy. Helped me save the world."

"He visited me once," Gràinne said, a smile broadening on her face. "Long ago. He was the first man I met who didn't ask for any favors. Until you, that is."

Warren could not help returning her smile.

"And if you are Patton's nephew—then you certainly know of him and Lena. A relationship that didn't doom itself." Her eyes were sparkling.

"Fair enough," Warren conceded. "Apparently my family is cursed to love immortals. I have a distant cousin who's keen to date a unicorn, you know."

"A much rarer match." Gràinne did not elaborate, and Warren found himself utterly lost for words for the first (and probably last) time in his life. He did not know what to think. He hardly knew what to feel—somehow, Gràinne's words were ringing true with him. But it felt ridiculous that a hydriad had fallen in love with him. Did she really expect him to love her in return? With so little to go on?

But then again…

"I don't know what to say," Warren admitted. "Let's sleep on it. Maybe tomorrow we can call an expert."

To his surprise, one of her brows tilted in amusement. "I am the expert," Gràinne deadpanned. "Good luck in your search, though."

Warren was laughing, deciding to leave the washing up for someone else, and escorted Gràinne to the doorway. "Good night," he said. "Enjoy your first night of sleep."

She opened her mouth as if she wanted to say something, but held back. "Good night, Warren Burgess," she said, and stood on her tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek. His skin tingled where her lips had touched.

A whirl of thoughts accompanied him to his room, and it continued with a gale force while he tried to get comfortable. Again, no luck. He kept thinking of Gràinne. And true love. And what his friends would say. And Gràinne. And the laughable Burgess curse. And Gràinne. Gràinne, Gràinne, Gràinne…

The door to his room squeaked, and he nearly jumped out of his skin before a whisper said, "It's only me."

Warren let out a low hiss, sitting straight up in his bed. "What are you doing here?"

The former-hydriad shuffled into the room and shut the door behind her. "I can't sleep," Gràinne admitted.

"Well, neither can I. And I certainly won't now!"

"Can—can I try to sleep with you? I feel...I don't like feeling a stranger."

" _I_ am a stranger to you," Warren pointed out.

Gràinne paused, wringing her hands together. "You're...less of a stranger. Please, Warren."

Her intentions could only be innocent, that much was obvious. He sighed, and pulled back the covers. "Of course."

The feeling of her slight, and slightly chilled, form next to his own as they settled in was far more disorienting than Warren had expected. She was trembling, and suspecting cold, he allowed her to snuggle close for warmth.

"I've never been cold before," Gràinne murmured in his ear, her breath tickling. "Thank you."

He muttered something incomprehensible in return. Her scent was so close to him, woven into her dark hair, and now he wondered how he could not have smelled her before. Clean moss, fresh water, and the dappled sun through trees. _That doesn't even make sense_ , Warren told himself sternly. _The sun doesn't smell!_ But it was the best description he could think of.

The comfort of Gràinne's eventual even breathing brought Warren unexpected peace, and at last he was able to doze off himself. Near to the end of his consciousness, he knew that he was already decided. He couldn't leave Gràinne behind; nor did he want to. He would take her everywhere, if she was willing. And if the warm feeling in his chest was any indication, her affection was not unrequited.

His final thought was that his friends would never stop teasing him about this.


	4. Chapter 4

The airplane hummed pleasantly, lulling Warren into a trance when combined with the soft feel of Gràinne's head resting on his shoulder. It was surprising how well she had taken to him, considering they were nearly strangers. But it was clear, nonetheless, that she depended on his presence entirely. Which was why, after his business at Stony Vale was finished, she had chosen to return with him to Fablehaven.

The logistics of procuring Gràinne a passport and necessary documents were easily dealt with. McKay kept the resources on hand, and Warren had the experience. He had watched on, arms folded across his chest, while Maev arranged Gràinne into a proper position for a passport photo.

The former-hydriad's eyes kept darting to Warren, who did his best to smile encouragingly in return. But the best she had managed for the picture was a disguised grimace, displeasing Maev.

"This isn't right." McKay had been present as well, and he spoke in a low voice.

"What else can be done?" Warren countered. "She refuses to stay here."

"Aye, I know that. _You_ should stay and keep her here."

"I have work to do."

This was a painful reminder for Warren. Since waking that first morning with Gràinne curled up beside him, his plans seemed hazy and far away. Reality had somehow taken on an unreal quality. It had taken a lot of focus to think of how to transport his new shadow to Fablehaven, where Bracken would most likely be found.

He shifted in the cramped seat. Gràinne made no indication that she noticed, and Warren glanced over, wonder if she was asleep. Dark lashes spread across her pale cheeks, and she was breathing evenly. He could have laughed but didn't want to disturb her; despite her concerns of adjusting to mortality, she certainly enjoyed her sleep. He couldn't blame her. Everything had happened so fast.

Maev had lent Gràinne a few changes of clothes, and she was presently wearing a pair of ill-fitting jeans and a dark sweater, which was far too large. Gràinne was so slight, so frail-looking that Warren doubted that they would find any clothing for her outside of the pre-teen section. Thinking of the additional hoops they would have to jump through to establish Gràinne in the mortal world almost made him ill.

Warren tried to doze over Greenland. Strange dreams wove into his consciousness, most involving water and music and the smell of moss. Eventually he slipped past the dreaming, and didn't wake until the captain's voice announced that they would be landing soon. He yawned and sat forward, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes to see Gràinne watching him with interest, her head in her hand and elbow on the armrest.

"Were you watching me?" he asked, voice hoarse.

"You look troubled," Gràinne said. "What is it?"

"Troubled? Ha! Why would I be troubled?"

Gràinne blinked slowly at him. "I don't know. That's why I asked."

Warren couldn't help feeling that her scrutiny of him was unfair, so he changed the topic. "There are some things I've been wondering," he admitted. "First: do all hydriads sing? Is that something unique from naiads and such? And second: why can't I get your voice out of my head?"

A shy smile was playing about her lips. "No, not really, and that sounds like a personal problem."

Warren grumbled in return. "You'll fit in with my friends. That much seems certain."

"When may I meet them?"

"Too soon. I have a feeling I will regret the day I let you gang up against me with them."

"Me?" Her golden eyes were all innocence. "I would never!"

Warren gave a sigh full of long-suffering. "Wait and see, my dear, wait and see."

Gràinne smiled in return, weaving her arm through his and nestling her small hand within his own. Once again her unabashed affection sent Warren's emotions reeling: Did she really understand what she was doing? And if she did, would she stop? He suspected not.

"There you go again," she interrupted his thoughts. "Your face is all scrunchy. What is troubling you?"

He didn't want to confide in her; he barely knew her and still was not completely convinced of her claim of true love. He wasn't sure he wanted to believe in it. But Gràinne's open expression was not one of judgement, and Warren could not question at all that she was utterly trustworthy. "You touch me a lot," he admitted, feeling like the sentence didn't quite portray the extent of his feelings about it.

"Should I not?"

"Well—er...it's only that...it's usually only people who are involved or related to each other that have such close contact."

"I see." Gràinne nodded slowly. "I suppose I enjoy close contact. You are very warm, Warren. I have never been warm before." Now a dimple began to surface in her pale cheek, and he stared, half-entranced. "Though to be fair, I have never been cold, either! But I do prefer the warmth. It's more than temperature, I think: it's comfort, too."

"You must have been cold-blooded when you were a hydriad."

"That term means nothing to me, but I'm sure you're right."

The airplane was descending, and with the roar of the landing gear being lowered distracted Gràinne enough to end their conversation. She had done well with leaving Stony Vale, she had coped well with air travel, and at this point Warren was not surprised that she was not at all bothered by the remaining trip to Fablehaven, involving one smaller plan and a surprise pickup by his brother.

Though he spoke little, Dale did not bother to hide his uncertainty and skepticism at the sight of Warren and Gràinne, holding hands. Warren had contemplated disallowing Gràinne from it, but thought better of it. She was happy, after all.

The car ride was silent, apart from Warren's blatant attempts at joking, which garnered little more than a shy smile from Gràinne and a resigned shake of the head from Dale. The sight of the wrought-iron gates which led to his sometime-home were never more welcome. But, to his surprise, the house was empty, and there was no sign of his arrival anywhere.

"Where's my welcome party?" Warren asked aloud.

Dale didn't appreciate this joke, either. "It's tonight. Everyone's out."

Despite it being early afternoon, Warren couldn't stop his yawn that followed. "Is Tanu here? I could use an anti-jet lag potion. I'm sure Gràinne could, too."

Dale shot a look to Gràinne, who smiled kindly at him. "Tanu isn't here," he reported. "And I have business elsewhere. Have a nap if you like." With that, his brother left the house, and Warren and Gràinne were left in the living room by themselves.

"Well!" Warren said. "I almost feel like I shouldn't have come back. No balloons?"

Gràinne stepped closer to him and took his hand once more, and strangely, a warm feeling crept back into him and pushed out everything else. How did she do that, anyway?

"Let's find you a room," he said.

* * *

The introduction of Gràinne to his family and sometime-friends went as well as Warren expected. Stan and Ruth's mouths had fallen open as Warren explained how he met her. He had decided to leave Gràinne's origin to her to tell, though she did not seem inclined to do so, and greeted everyone in a timid voice, her hand clammy in his own.

Warren wasn't ready to tell everyone that she had prophesied that they were destined for true love.

Bracken's appearence, halfway through the introductions, did not bode well. He was scowling before Warren even had a chance to tell him her name.

"How did you meet a hydriad?" was Bracken's first inquiry, which Warren responded to, repeating the story again. Then Bracken's attention turned to Gràinne, who flushed red as Bracken reached for her hand. She moved closer to Warren.

"It's ok," Warren told her. "He won't hurt you. I think." Truthfully, he had never seen Bracken so upset, especially by a non-aggressive, non-demon female. Gràinne glanced warily at him, then released his hand to allow Bracken to touch her.

A tense, silent moment, and then Bracken let her hand fall, his brows creased with anxiety. "We should take you to my mother," he said at last, then with an angry glance at Warren. "You too. She won't go without you."

Between Warren and Gràinne, this bemused him. In front of everyone else, it embarrassed him.

"What is this?" Stan asked, interrupting. "Why does she need to see the Fairy Queen?"

Bracken glanced at him. "Your distant cousin here has won the affection of a hydraid, Stan. The only one I've seen in centuries; most of us believed her kind had died out. She should have been left in the river!" This to Warren, who was beginning to feel annoyed.

"It wasn't my fault!" he complained. "I didn't ask her to leave the river!"

A look was exchanged between Gràinne and Bracken, and Warren disliked the thought that they were going to gang up on him. But after a shrug, Bracken declared, "Let's go to the shrine now."

"Must it be now?" Ruth asked. "It has been a long day, and I think we would all like supper."

Warren agreed wholeheartedly with this, but was outvoted by the fairy prince, who apparently counted for multiple votes. And so within five minutes, they were trampling through the woods, Gràinne wearing a pair of Ruth's old rainboots. Twilight was descending upon the woods, and murky purple light led them to the shrine with only an occasional lightening bug coming near.

"Stay here," Bracken ordered Warren, who scowled. And then he watched helplessly as Bracken took Gràinne across the lake in a boat, feeling cross but knowing it was probably for the. _He_ certainly wasn't likely to survive setting foot on the Fairy Queen's island. So he took to pacing on the shore, ignoring the titters from the naiads. It helped that they didn't speak English.

Darkness continued to blacken the landscape, until Warren could barely see the gleam of the white pavilions and boathouse around the lake. He sat down heavily in the middle of the pier and watched what he could see of the island with intensity. At that moment, despite what he felt was a rotten welcome home, he couldn't help but feel sorry for Gràinne. Taken from her home, bullied by a bunch of strangers, and then taken for a reckoning to the Fairy Queen. If it was him, he would have run away screaming from it all days ago.

At last, the sound of splashing preceeded the return of the boat, and Warren stood so quickly he almost toppled. He jogged to the boathouse, and arrived just in time to help Gràinne to alight from the boat. She smiled warmly at him, and he kept her hand tightly in his own. Weirdly, unaccountably, unexpectedly: he had missed her touch.

"Let's go back to the house," Bracken growled. If he was put out before, now he was bordering on fury. Warren did not respond further than a skeptical look, and the trio returned to the path and back to the house. It wasn't until they stepped foot onto the lawn that Bracken spoke again, letting out a long sigh of exasperation.

"I don't know what you did," he said to Warren. "But you have won the heart of a woman a thousand times your better."

"Don't listen to him," Gràinne said, winding her arm through his as they stepped up on the porch. "He's just upset that his mother won't harbor me in her realm. And as it so happens...I'm not the last of my sisters."

Warren blinked as they entered the brightly lit kitchen, and Ruth ushered the trio into the dining room, where supper was waiting for them. At last! It was a considerably pleasant evening, better than he hoped: Bracken, still looking miffed, took his leave before the meal to attend to his own business. So with the company of only Stan, Ruth, Dale and Gràinne; Warren applied himself to his business, which was relaxing, with much enthusiasm.

He successfully put Gràinne's apparent issues far from his mind, and was already falling asleep that night in his bed, feeling remarkably at peace, when a scratching sounded at his door. He sighed, knowing he should have expected it.

Gràinne slunk into the room, shrouded in shadow. She closed the door with a click behind her, her eyes wary as she glanced at Warren.

"Do you mind?" she whispered.

"No," he said. "I suppose not."

Once she was successfully installed in his embrace, (Warren feeling that perhaps Stan and Ruth would not be pleased if they knew of this), he said, "Tell me of your audience with the Fairy Queen."

Gràinne was quiet for a moment before speaking. "She regrets the gift she gave to my kind," she told him. "It has caused much grief, and now we are nearly extinct. But she did tell me that I have two sisters in captivity, and she asked me to find them and liberate them."

Warren absorbed this surprising information in silence, and he began to absently nuzzle her soft, dark hair. "Will you?" he asked.

"I don't know." She paused, giving a little sigh that seemed to make his heart stutter. "But the Queen advised that I enlist a few Knights of the Dawn to help me in my quest, so there probably are some complications."

"A few?" Warren said. "How bad can finding a few hydriads be?"

"I don't know," Gràinne said again. "One was last known to be in a maharaja's palace, and another held in a prison in the old sewers of Copenhagen. No one knows what kind of protections there would be."

"Well," Warren said, matter-of-fact. "You would need someone with experience in navigating magical traps and prisons. Someone...with a special set of skills."

She lifted her head to look quizzically at him, and he gave her his most winning smile. "You?" Gràinne asked doubtfully.

"Of course!"

She gave a short giggle, but her preoccupation was clear. "I was thinking of inviting you anyway," she admitted. "Assuming you would agree. I don't think I could be apart from you."

Warren paused. "Really?"

"Really."

"Huh." He wasn't sure what to think of that. He had put her attachment to him out of his mind; it was much easier than facing head on. It brought too many questions that he wasn't ready to face.

Gràinne was still watching him, her golden eyes barely gleaming in the dim light, and concern etched across her face. Seeing her and holding her stirred all sorts of emotions that Warren wasn't ready for, and he swallowed nervously. "I'll go," he said. "And I'll help you. You won't need anyone else, as I _am_ an expert in those sorts of things."

"In hydriad retrieval?" she asked, a small smile lifting her lips.

"Oh, yes. That's not usually something I put on my resume, but like I said, I'm an expert…"

"I am beginning to disbelieve you," Gràinne said, still smiling. "The more you talk, the more I think you're covering up that you aren't an expert."

"But I am!" Warren said, looking offended. "I've battled multiple-headed panthers that spit acid, dragons...sort of; minotaurs, weird tribal dancers, etc. etc. You know. All the important ones. Did you know I once lived in a trans-dimensional backpack with a hermit troll? I'm very good at Yahtzee."

Gràinne was covering her mouth with one hand to keep from laughing too loudly. "Now I really don't believe you!" she declared.

"You're teasing me!" he decided. "Little minx. I wonder that you didn't just leave your river just to give me a good setdown."

"I would never—" Gràinne began. Warren, suddenly overcome by the affection of their banter and her closeness, bent his head towards her and kissed her. When he pulled away, she was staring at him, wide-eyed and her mouth hanging open.

"Sorry," he said quickly. "I couldn't resist." Then to prove his point, kissed her again. And again. And again, deepening the kiss and pulling her so close, so tightly that he wouldn't have been able to take a decent breath even had he been inclined to. She wasn't averse to the kissing, and responded to his touch with such enthusiasm that his mind began to feel hazy and dull, even though he was sure there was fire racing across his skin where she was touching his arms, his neck…

Somehow, several minutes later, he came to be lying half on top of her, and alarm bells began to ring in his mind. Warren pulled away regretfully, and fell back on his back, breathing heavily. Gràinne did not hesitate to snuggle close to him again, leaning her head on his chest, which he tried very hard to ignore.

"You know," he said at last, staring at the dark ceiling. "If we keep this up, I'm going to fall in love with you."

"Good," Gràinne murmured. "It's about time."

* * *

 _This where I'll end it for now. Cheers! Let me know what you think._


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